There's Nothing Quite Like Siblings
by TeaAndUmbrellas
Summary: There have been many dark moments between England and Scotland, but now that the latter might leave the UK England is forced to confront some of his feelings on the matter. This fic looks at the past and the present, and show how the two brothers hurt each other, and how incredibly dysfunctional they both are. T for cursing Brits.


_I'd like to dedicate this to you, Ryuu-chan, as you were keen on reading it. Helps me type and all :)_

_I started writing this in March. Honestly. Then I found it more and more difficult to finish it, to the point where I am now, about a week before the referendum and I'll have to publish or leave it. And although I'm less confident about this than some other stuff I've published I figured I'd share anyway. I sort of wanted to portray them both as gits, who are flawed and with different underlying motives. It was nice playing with their dark sides too. _

_I'm sorry about the horridly bad attempt at a Scottish accent, it's just that doing nothing with the way he speaks feels odd. I like having that distinction with him and England, and I can hear him so vividly in my head as I write, and I hope you sort of can too. _

_Nope, don't own Hetalia. Or Scotland. Or any British country come to that._

_(- Yes, I own all the other ones, of course.)_

D'accord. On y va.

* * *

><p><strong>There's Nothing Like Siblings<strong>

**March 1746**

'Ye cannae do this ye monster! We had an agreement!' Scotland yelled at his little brother, who arguably wasn't so little anymore. Young he might be still, but cold and cruel beyond his years.

The Englishman had lighter green eyes, blonde hair and was considerably shorter than the Scot. Alasdair himself had impressive red hair, and dark green eyes. He had muscles and he had guts and honour, unlike the little Englishman he was staring at in hatred.

Alasdair spat on the ground for good measure.

England had agreed to meet him up north, in a little clearing in the Northumbrian woods. Scotland realised he would have had a lot more joy from spitting on England's expensive carpets, but one can't have everything. Or anything, it seems.

'Indeed. We had an agreement. A very clear one I would like to add, which you quite clearly violated', England told him, cold and calculated.

'Ye dinnae ken anything aboot me country do ye? We have klans! It wasnae all of Scotland rising up against ye!' Scotland told the other angrily. He had never been good at keeping his temper, and right now he saw no reason for trying.

'Your accent is appalling', England said mockingly. 'How you haven't learnt proper English yet is beyond me, it is not as hard as you are making it out to be'.

'Ach pish aff! I'm trying to tell ye something, the least ye can do is show me the respect and listen ta me!' the Scot shouted. _Don't punch him, it'll only make it worse, don't punch him… _

Arthur raised an eyebrow. 'You understand I can't simply let an uprising like that pass. It wasn't even about taking back Scotland, it was about claiming England. I can't have that now can I?'

Alasdair tried to calm his breathing. He wouldn't mind taking over England himself at the moment. Claiming those stupid green fields as his own, while his brother would have to follow his command.

They had entered the union as a mutual agreement back in 1707. Scotland had been too poor to build an empire, while England had become rich trading with India for spices and other exotic riches. England himself had agreed to the union to avoid any more Scottish-French alliances forming against him.

Then, parts of Scotland had risen up against him, with the help of the French. England had not taken it lightly.

'Ye ken Scotland dosnae speak with one voice! Ye slaughtered enough of my people, let that be example enough. There is nae need tae take away me culture! Or drive people away from their homes in the highlands!'

'I rather think there is. Your people are unruly and unorganised. Cannot even honour a political agreement. This all needs to change. You are in a union with us now, and we are building an empire. We can't afford domestic issues like that again'.

_Can't afford such a threat on our doorstep. _

The redhead grabbed the younger by the collar and lifted him up, England didn't lose his composure in any way, just stared at him cold, and defiant, and final. 'Ye cannae do this! Ye cannae get away with this!' Alasdair's Scottish brogue snarled at him, pushing the Englishman hard against a tree.

'Oh, but I already have', the cold words from the Englishman hit the Scot's chest like an arrow.

* * *

><p><strong>March 2002<strong>

England was travelling up to the highlands in order to properly talk to Scotland concerning the aftermaths of 11 September 2001. The topic was, of course, whether Britain should join America in the war on terror.

All the Europeans were being reluctant, but England and his Prime Minister felt it was their duty to help. They were part of NATO after all, and they had each other's backs! Nobody attacks America without Britain's consent.

They were in Scotland's favourite home, an old Scottish castle, sitting in old chairs around the original sitting-room fireplace, sipping a glass of whisky each.

Despite spring having made an appearance, the heavy rain, the old stones and the draft through the old windows made the room freezing cold.

England, of course, was using very fancy language and spoke around the topic for hours, over some of Scotland's nicer whisky, and the Scot was by now becoming pretty tired.

He was sick of the bullshit and the stupid arguments based on their "responsibility towards the planet, human rights, against weapons of mass destruction, promote democracy", surely Scotland must understand Britain's responsibility to _blah blah blah_.

Suddenly Alasdair was on his feet.

'Why can ye never just say that you want tae help America because ye're fond of him? This is a stupid idea, condemned in the UN and in Europe. But if ye were honest about how ye feel I might see yer side and not simply get bloody annoyed at ye!' he spat in his thickest Scottish accent. One step away from yelling in gaelic, probably, which would have been futile as England still didn't speak a word of it.

Arthur rose to his feet as well, completely flustered. 'That... that has nothing to do with this! We are allies and we have a moral responsibility to.." he started but was rudely interrupted.

"Ach! Ye cannae take a hint can ye? We have a moral responsibility to what? Bomb civilians for a terror attack!? Nobody has declared war. Ye always liked breaking the rules while pretending to follow them, but ye are dragging me and Wales into this too and I want ye tae not just think of yerself and Alfred for one sodding second!" Alasdair said harshly as he was backing England slowly against a wall.

'Wales and _I_..' Arthur corrected, not even thinking that this was perhaps not the best time for correcting his brother's grammar. He'd already stopped himself from correcting the 'annoyed at' to 'annoyed with', and he simply could not let this second one slide.

Scotland loathed it when the other corrected his language! It wasn't even his, but the language England had forced him to speak. He gave up on the diplomacy completely. As so many times before, England's mind had been made up long before they met, and nothing Scotland said would change that.

Arthur kept taking steps backwards unconsciously as his angry older brother kept advancing, and suddenly he felt his back hit the wall.

England was again reminded that where he had power in numbers, politics, and money, his brother had temper and physical strength. Scotland slammed his hands to the wall next to England's head, effectively blocking any exit for the shorter country.

They had both wondered why Alasdair had grown taller and stronger than Arthur. Or rather, why Arthur had never caught up. England had technically the larger land-mass, and the most people. However, Scotland believed his celtic genes or the mountains of Scotland was the reason. England had no terrain whatsoever. Rolling green hills most of it.

Scotland knew the lack of height bothered the younger that the blonde, who liked his authority to go unchallenged, had to look up at Scotland as they spoke. Or that he didn't stand much chance in a fair fight.

England winced slightly, and blinked involuntarily, as he was trapped between the stone wall and an angry Scotsman. However, he refused to let anything but stubbornness reach his eyes.

'Ye cannae boss me around anymore. I have me own parliament ye ken!'

'But we still share national defence. And we are going to war', England said, refusing to back away from Scotland who had leaned down for their eyes to be levelled, though he knew Scotland was close to punching him. They were both too stubborn for their own good.

Scotland's face hardened. Aye, they shared the military. Didn't he just know it? He who had to take care of their nuclear weapons!

'Ye're a selfish, snobbish, public school bastard', was all he said. _Stuck up, prude, snotty brat of an eejit bassa, _he added in his head, the list of insult growing longer any minute.

'So you like to remind me. But you know you need me, and my finances', the younger brother dared to smirk.

Scotland took the opportunity to punch.

The force of the hit made England lose his balance and fall to the ground. Scotland, however, wasn't finished. He pulled him up and pushed his face into the wall, holding his right arm twisted painfully on his back.

'How can ye be so calm? Eh? How can ye make horrible decisions without so much as blinking?' he whispered into England's ear.

'Because I believe it is the right thing to do', the blonde hissed back between clenched teeth.

'Nae. Nae, ye just want tae be a great empire again. Hate to break it to ye, but America has taken over. Ye're just a desperate little country these days, England. And I don't want tae be part of tha' '.

With a strong, painful grip on England's arm and neck he pushed the younger country through the room and into a much smaller adjoining one which was currently empty.

It looked a lot like the alcove in Edinburgh Castle where Mary, Queen of Scots, had given birth to James VI of Scotland, later James I of England. It was small, with wooden panel and a single barred window.

Scotland tried to loosen England's tie with one hand so he could use it to tie the other country down, but Arthur took the opportunity to fight back. As the pressure on his arm softened, he managed to direct a perfect kick at Scotland and both countries fell to the ground.

Arthur had landed on top and tried to hold the other down with his body weight, while pinning down Scotland's arms. Unfortunately for England, Scotland had always been the better fighter, Arthur always having prefered directing and planning than front line fighting.

Alasdair managed to roll the smaller nation off, and pin him to the ground. England tried to kick and fight back, but there was nothing to hit, while the Scot resumed loosening the younger's tie.

Scotland bound England's hands to the radiator, the other cursing the best he could as he found himself lying on his back with his hands tied over his head to the wall.

When the older country was sure his brother would not be able to undo the knot immediately, he moved away. Both countries panting heavily from exhaustion. They hadn't had proper fist fights for years.

In many ways Scotland had missed this. Fighting was what siblings do. Testing each other's strength, teasing, and playing. However, siblings were also supposed to stop in time, and forgive each other. Why couldn't they be like that?

'Scotland you wanker, let me go!' England shouted from the floor, as he pulled on his own expensive tie.

'Nae', was all the Scot had to answer.

'Oh for fuck's sakes', England hissed as he tried to weaken the knot.

Scotland looked down at him. He was so fond of that stupid git. That absolute eejit! He couldn't help but love him. At the same time, he had his people to think of, and his own pride.

'I'll come back for ye tomorrow', Alasdair said calmly, as he backed out of the room.

'Tomorrow!?' England said a bit more panic in his voice than he had intended. 'What are you on about? Scotland!?'

'Good night England', the older country said and closed the door. The younger could hear the sound of the big old key being turned.

'Oi! You can't just leave me here! Scotland! Come back! What the fuck do you think you're doing!?' but Scotland didn't return.

England let his head sink to the floor. 'Fuck' he whispered. 'Fuck'.

Scotland returned for the blonde early the next morning.

As expected, England had untied his arms at some point. The Englishman was more than averagely great at escaping captivity, but he had not managed to break out of the room itself. The window led down a mountainside and could not be opened, and there was no other way out than the thick oak doors, which could not be broken down.

England had slept curled up, leaning his head against the wall next to the radiator. A modern introduction not fitting for a medieval castle perhaps, but the only reason the room managed to maintain a temperature above freezing.

The blonde gentleman looked cold and dishevelled as he climbed to his feet using the wall for support. He had some minor bruises after the fight, but Scotland, ever the older brother, had been careful not to hurt the younger too much.

The Scot felt a pang of guilt in his chest, but he had wanted to do it. To lock England up, let him taste his own medicine. Swallow the diplomatic bullshit that didn't fool anyone. To get down from his high horse and not be in control for once.

No, Scotland didn't regret his actions. He had wanted to teach the stuck up, snotty brat a lesson, and he couldn't bring himself to apologise. In any case, he couldn't back out now and say sorry. It had escalated too much for that.

'Ye look peaky blondie. Rough night?' Alasdair asked as he ruffled his ginger hair absentmindedly.

England gave him a cold, dark stare.

'Don't ever do something like that again. Don't challenge me Scotland, or I'll make your life miserable. We will be going to war, as I have decided. I came here with intention of hearing you out and discussing things rationally, but that is clearly not your cup of tea, as per usual resorting to violence', England's voice was steady, detached, authoritative.

He continued, 'I will take my leave now, and you will not talk to me again for a very long time. Are we clear?'

'Aye, we're clear,' Scotland said, looking down on his shorter brother.

England could be hot-headed around France or so exasperated over America's ignorance or youthful enthusiasm, but the cold and the hurt seemed to be reserved for Scotland only.

That terrifying figure that could run an empire, overseeing government bureaucracy, and military forces all over the planet without batting an eyelash, that was the England he got to see. Goodness knows when the last time he had seen his brother laugh was.

But Scotland wondered if he had gone too far this time. Arthur seemed colder than normal. After all, he was still struggling with finding out who he was if not The British Empire, which had long fallen.

He knew his brother had problems expressing himself. That England in some ways just wanted to impress his big brother. Wanted his approval, where he thought Scotland was the authority, when it came to physical strength and power.

England walked calmly and steadily down the stairs and out the door to the castle. He had corrected his tie and brushed off his tweed jacket.

He knew Scotland would observe him from the windows so he kept his pace as steady and proud as his exhausted body could muster, and entered the car.

England drove the Jag heading south for a while, but when he had calmed down a bit, and was sure he was far out of Scotland's sight, he stopped the car to the side of the deserted road. It was a beautiful part of the country, but Arthur didn't care.

At this point his English stiff upper lip cracked. His mask shattering in a million pieces of pain and frustration.

He let out a sob, hit the steering wheel in frustration a few times, and buried his face in his hands. England couldn't even blame Scotland for what he had done. He just wanted Scotland to see his side, but he couldn't. He didn't know how to tell the truth or express those horrid things France called "emotions".

England tried to control his breath, calm down. He repeatedly hit is head on the steering wheel a few times, then leaned back, took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and continued the long drive down to London.

* * *

><p><strong>March 2014<strong>

307 years and Scotland wanted to leave. Well, was considering leaving. Would vote over it. Might leave. Maybe. Perhaps.

The two brothers had hardly spoken these past 12 years, but now England's boss wanted him to go up there and beg, become friends with his brother, play happy families! Humbug! Absolute humbug!

England had to admit his presence might only make it worse. Like when the Prime Minister wouldn't even go to Scotland to tell them personally he wanted them to stay, but prefered to say it on telly, safely 5 hours away from Edinburgh.

Arthur was worried, of course he bloody was!

Not for Scotland to punch him. In fact, he wouldn't mind that so much. He was scared Scotland would leave him alone. Like everyone did in the end. More than that he was scared that he would ask Scotland sincerely to stay, and then be rejected.

England was scared he couldn't swallow his pride. And he was scared he would lose his temper. Say things he didn't mean again. Hurt the other.

Scotland had always brought out the worst in him.

He pulled up his Land Rover in front of one of Scotland's addresses. England was nearly embarrassed at how relieved he'd been when Scotland had suggested meeting in one of his smaller cottages, rather than his favourite castle.

Obviously England had properties all over his own country, but work and convenience often drew him back to London. He would of course make an effort to spend months in the Lake District, Cornwall, Yorkshire, Liverpool, and everywhere else in his territory, but Scotland was ever restlessly moving around his country.

As Arthur exited the car, the other nation opened the door, having heard the vehicle turn up at his house. 'England', the other country smiled and crossed the last metres between them.

'Hello Scotland', the younger began and was about to stretch his hand out when the other enveloped him in a big bear hug. 'How are ye, me wee brair? I haven't seen ye in ages!'

The Englishman was rather taken aback by it.

The Scot released him and went over to take Arthur's suitcase out of the car and carry it inside. 'Come on in. I put the kettle on when I heard ye approach. We'll have ourselves a nice brew. It's a long journey from Kent after all'.

England eyed the other suspiciously. He hadn't seen much of Scotland this past decade that was true, but surely he hadn't changed this much?

'Actually, I recently moved to Devon', Arthur heard himself politely tell his brother whom opened the door, leading him into a cosy kitchen looking out on some breathtaking nature.

Devon, Scotland though. Devon was nearly as far away from Scotland as one could get on the island of Great Britain.

'Aye, sorry I forgot. Wales told me last week.' Scotland had put the suitcase down in the hallway and, offering a seat at the table to his brother, began making tea.

'It is nice to move again. Though my presence is ever required in London', England remarked.

'Devonshire is a beauty', Scotland remarked referring to the English county with its old name, as he put the pot down, with an old tea cosy England had once made for him for Christmas drawn over the pot to keep it warm in the early spring chill.

'Particularly Dartmoor of course' the Scot continued.

England just nodded as he carefully stirred the milk into his tea, making sure the spoon didn't make contact with the cup.

The younger country took one deep breath cutting to the chase for once. 'Scotland, I would like you to know that we consider you an invaluable part of the United Kingdom and we would all be sad to see you go', he began.

Arthur was not meeting his brother's eyes. He was talking to Scotland's tea cup. 'That being said this is obviously a difficult decision which we are sure you will treat with the utmost care, and that at the end of the day this is for your people to decide'.

Scotland knew the Englishman had rehearsed the lines in the car.

'I won't deny it will be cumbersome to untangle a political union this old, but we will of course do our best if it that is the decision you make. For now we will cross that bridge when we get to it'.

The blonde stole a glance up at his brother, and he was surprised to see he was smiling.

'Thank ye', the redhead said.

He caught England's eyes. They stared at each other for a while before the Anglo-Saxon broke the contact and opted to stare out the window instead.

'I suppose you realise I have been sent here to, erm...' England hesitated, 'to knit closer bonds between our two nations'.

'Aye. I ken.'

'The boss hopes you won't leave us', he added. Both noticing how he had said "the" instead of "my" or "our" boss.

'Look. I'm sorry about, you know, the I...' England began but trailed off. He was tempted to say "everything". Instead he drank more of his tea.

'Nae, lad. It's me who should say sorry', Alasdair said as he looked at his brother, who refused to meet his eyes again.

England just nodded to say he understood and accepted. Then shook his head as if changing his mind. 'No. No. You were right back then. I should learn to listen more'.

Arthur fought the strong impulse to fidget. Had he really said that out loud? Been so honest? How very unlike him.

'And I should control my temper', Scotland noted.

The Englishman smiled a little at that.

'Sasainn, the referendum won't change much. For better or for worse. You and I will still be here, like now, same as always', Scotland said.

There had been a time when England would correct the use of his own name in Gaelic, Welsh or Irish, but that time had passed. They were all growing old.

'I know', he said. _I'm just scared of change_ he didn't say.

'I just find this whole business tawdry. In some ways I wish it was over so we at least knew the outcome of it,' England sighed.

'Are ye in such a hurry tae get rid of me?' Scotland laughed.

England gave him a weak smile.

'Things will change whether we stay in the UK or not England, I think you'll have tae accepta tha' sooner rather than later,' Alasdair said, and then change the tone.

'Ok, let's say that you and I have now spoken about this whole business with the referendum. Which we have, tae be fair. Let's go do something nice instead, like fishing, or play croquet, or something. Maybe just take a walk,' Scotland suggested.

'That would be nice,' England said.

Maybe they could go back to being proper brothers again?

* * *

><p><strong>Early September 2014<strong>

England turned his radio off in disgust. All these men shouting at each other, trying to scare each other or pushing blame. Didn't they understand that his debate is more important than the people involved? It's the future of the UK on the line here!

He picked up the phone to call his brother.

'Mornin', England,' Scotlands voice said merrily over the phone.

'Madainn mhath, Alba,' England answered, painfully aware that his pronunciation wasn't particularly good. It made him cringe at how he used to correct Scotland's English when they were younger. Well, how he sometimes still can't help himself.

He could hear Scotland crack a smile at the other end.

'So, why're ye calling?'

'I suppose to gratulate you again on the Commonwealth Games. Well arranged and organised. Couldn't have done it better myself, and that is saying something', England half teased, before he continued.

'It was a fabulously Scottish opening too. I can't believe you dressed those kids up as tea cakes!' he laughed.

'Brilliant wasn't it?' Scotland said smugly, but laughed too.

They fell quiet for a little bit. Not a strained silence, but a natural and good pause in the conversation. Then Scotland broke it:

'Ye were listening to the debate too, weren't ye?'

'Yeah,' England admitted, 'but I had to turn it off. I find it so vile to listen to them debate about it. They're all human twats with too little perspective,' he said, trying to sound unaffected but he couldn't quite do it.

Scotland knew England didn't mean the words he was using exactly, but he understood why the younger Brits was using them. England hated everything that was out of his control, particularly like this.

'Nobody knows what'll happen England, me least of anyone. But I can safely say that ye're invited for tea next month whatever happens,' Scotland assured his brother.

'Oh dear. Do I have to try to eat your haggis again? I swear, your cooking is even worse than mine!' England complained over the phone.

'Oi! At least I can actually make short bread, did ye see the ones ye brought around the last time?'

'That's not fair, I didn't have time to do it properly because I needed to stop America from breaking the world,' England pouted. 'At least I didn't blow up a baked potato in the micro the last time I was cooking for you!'

'Alright alright. What say ye we go out tae a pub then?'

'Sounds splendid,' England said merrily.

**The End**

* * *

><p><em>Madainn mhath Scottish Gaelic for Good morning<em>

_I don't know if I'd vote yes or no if I was Scottish. Frankly, I find this whole thing daunting and unsettling, and I don't envy anyone who have to make up their minds about it. I'll stay calmly out of it, but it was fun reflecting on England and Scotland's brotherhood. They're just so… dysfunctional. _

_I am in no way trying to cause offense in my stereotyping, nor in my appallingly bad attempt at portraying a Scottish accent in writing. _

_Lastly, I'd like to make an additional dedication to the mouse whom I named Robert, who was keeping my company writing last night. Amusing little chap!_


End file.
